


Equilibrio

by babyrubysoho



Category: The Godfather (1972 1974 1990), The Godfather - Mario Puzo
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Catharsis, Character Study, Character perspective on movie events, Depressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Italian Mafia, Kissing, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Discovery, Sexual Tension, Slash, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8145241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: Everyone knew that Al Neri was loyal beyond reason. This was not out of personal interest in backing a man who could help him rise to power. Many men followed Michael because with luck he would one day be Godfather. Al followed because, to all intents and purposes, Michael Corleone was God.It would be years before this view changed, before the bodyguard grew up and, what’s more, grew a brain with which to actually think about Michael. In doing so, he discovered a host of new reasons to stay true.*Al Neri's perspective on events and the evolution of his feelings for his boss, from his first meeting with Michael in the novel to the final scene of the second film.*





	1. Use Your Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me (to invisible readers): Hey guys, who wants a depressing, introspective fic with no dialogue for the first three pages?!  
> Reader: *Lack of excited clamour*  
> Me: You might get a weird sex scene out of it!  
> Reader: ...I'll skip to that part.

Albert Neri couldn’t claim he knew anything about anything when he chose to throw in his lot with the Corleone Family. This didn’t bother him, because back then he lived his life based largely on reflex and instinct. Other than the fatal loss of restraint that had got him thrown off the force and nearly into the tank, it had proved a fail-safe way of operating. And everything about the Don and his youngest son sent an inescapable signal to his hindbrain: _Home_.

Their manner, their values, their Old Country heritage settled his astonished feeling of ill-use and put him at ease for the first time since his arrest. The man they called the Godfather was courteous, his house and family warm with the scents of domesticity that Neri had not experienced since his own wife left him. His men were efficient and respectful. And between them, Vito Corleone and his son commanded an entire world.

But it was Michael who clinched it. Neri had made up his mind before Michael even began to speak: the quiet aura of power and implacability surrounding the young man had caused the compass that sat deep in Neri’s subconscious to swing immediately in his direction, the needle almost straining off its pin in its efforts to point toward him.

Not that Neri visualized his attraction to Corleone’s strength in those terms. He just recognized it when he saw it. On top of that, Michael had a way of focusing his attention on a person that suggested they interested him more than anything else in the room. He was affable, sympathetic to the policeman’s thwarted views on justice, and he listened. Almost fatherly, in spite of his youth. And so, in the space of three days and without rationalizing it at all, Neri had happily tied his fate to the Family’s.

For a year he worked under Clemenza, learning the ropes. He didn’t mind: all that was required was that he observe, and follow instructions in a way that almost always jibed with his own ruthless inclinations. Before long the _caporegime_ was giving him small responsibilties, and eventually he made his bones. Still, Neri didn’t always care for Clemenza’s choices when they differed from his own, and though he kept his mouth shut on it he could sense the older man watching him, with caution, he felt, and some amusement.

Perhaps it was these little inner rebellions, or perhaps his growing competence – Neri never was sure which – that prompted Clemenza to send him back up the ladder and out of his hair. Not that the reason mattered, because finally he could work under Michael, and that fact gave him more satisfaction than anything had in his life.

As far as Al Neri was concerned, Michael could do no wrong. Though his orders generally came through Tom Hagen, Michael’s will was one he never questioned; the man’s words were like the law Neri had practiced throughout his life on the beat. And more, because he had never enforced the law with such deeply-felt fervor as that with which he carried out the youngest Corleone’s commands. This was not out of personal interest in backing a man who could help him rise to power. Many men followed Michael because with luck he would one day be Godfather. Neri followed because, to all intents and purposes, Michael Corleone was God.

It would be years before this view changed, before Neri grew up and, what’s more, grew a brain with which to actually _think_ about Michael. In doing so, he discovered a host of new reasons to be loyal.

 

* * *

 

 

Al hadn’t known Michael at all when the old Don was still in control. He’d heard the stories later, mostly from Pentangeli, who could never keep his mouth shut: the college kid, the war hero, part of the family but not _in_ the Family. Seemed like he’d had a good life mapped out for himself, until Vito’s shooting and Sonny’s assassination had wiped it away clean as if it had never existed. By all accounts neither the Godfather nor Michael had wanted things to turn out this way, but there it was: he was smarter than Fredo, smarter than any of them, and he had paid the price of it.

Michael no longer had any sense of humor whatever, as far as Al could tell. Not that you could blame him. Al found it refreshing, especially after some of the morons he’d been responsible to as a cop; guys like, well, like Fredo, who maybe meant well but were always kidding around, not over-burdened with brains, who might make some dumb smart-mouth remark at any time. When that kind of man was in charge during life-and-death situations, a misplaced sense of humor could be trying. Not Michael, who from their first acquaintance had the poise of a much older man, playing things close to his chest and never letting his mouth run away with him.

Not even after the old Don died had he lost his cool, meting out a perfectly orchestrated sweep of vengeance for Sonny and his first wife and the disrespect paid to his Family. Al had never known the extent of Michael’s grand plan, but he had been delighted to be a cog in the machine. He’d played his part in the murder spree without a hitch.

Even that early Al had no compunction about disposing of men who threatened his boss’s dignity, never mind his life, and he had asked no thanks for it. But when Michael, alone in his study, had received the news of Barzini’s death with a restrained expression that nonetheless spoke of pride and cautious triumph, Al had felt pure exhilaration. And when Michael had clapped him on the cheek and given him his own cool brand of Sicilian kiss, Al had thought that he would murder the world to retain this feeling of approbation.

That feeling had never changed; it meant more to Al than all the tangible marks of trust given to him, like the acting charge of the old Tessio regime. Even with his new privilege he never lost his deep sense of awe for the man who directed his destiny. Still, as Al followed his boss’s lead and began to think, and to look, and to analyze instead of simply reacting, he gradually felt an urge to _understand_ Michael, to figure out what made him the leader he was. And, just as it is a hard task to worship a man when you truly know him, so Michael’s status began to shift from god to person in Al’s eyes. Al did not see this change as diminishing Don Corleone’s stature, and would have broken the face of anyone who suggested it: if he worshipped Michael less, he loved him more.

Al sometimes found himself looking for traces of the past in his boss’s face – he liked to look at Michael, though by then it was more to study him than for the old sense of pleasure and stability it used to bring, like a dog’s gaze trained on its master. He was learning to observe from Michael himself. But he could never spot any regret for the loss of that other life. Just determination not to falter in this one.

He had less leisure to look once the Family had pulled out of New York and made the move to Nevada. Michael put him in charge of security for their operations all across Vegas. It was a sign of respect that did not escape Al, though for himself he had preferred his short stint as bodyguard to any more independent role. He only saw Michael now during briefings, or meetings where the Don wanted to show the strength of his Family by quiet display of his _caporegimes_. These made Al curiously wistful for that early time, when it was his job to be always within earshot of Michael’s call, when he could do the small services that put him close to his boss’s assured and reassuring presence.

He still guarded the privilege of performing these services when they did meet – lighting his cigarettes, mixing his drink – but the sensations that Michael’s proximity aroused were no longer as simple as the blind adulation of the old days. Perhaps it was his own growing understanding of the pressures of running an empire. Perhaps it was because he now spent days away from the main house that he saw more clearly the man Michael Corleone was becoming.

 

* * *

 

 

Al reflected on this as he stepped hurriedly into the office, where Michael was stubbing out a cigarette; the last of many, if the full ashtray was anything to go by. Not that the current Godfather had a lot of vices, or pleasures, come to that. On the surface he seemed so straight as to be almost dull, especially for a rich man living in a wicked state like Nevada. He just smoked, at times when normal men would be tired or worried or angry – and tonight he had damn good reason to.

When he didn’t have a cigarette to hand he had lately taken to pressing his fingertips against his closed eyelids. It was an older man’s gesture that fitted seamlessly into Al’s image of Michael – Michael as a man, not the near deity of his youth – and he couldn’t help but like the look of it, even as he wondered what it meant. Michael was doing it now. Al frowned, trying to work out if it signified displeasure or anxiety or even fear, or if it was a calculated pantomime of the above. Hard to tell; even with Al’s new hobby of reading faces, Michael was inscrutable. Usually this inspired nothing but Al’s admiration, but tonight it was jarring because this was, with no exaggeration, a state of emergency.

Al had not been on the estate when the assassination attempt had occurred – he was escorting Pentangeli and his crony to the airport on Michael’s instructions. Al agreed with his boss’s caution: the man was losing the plot, and needed watching. He had dropped by his girlfriend’s after, not being much of a dancing and schmoozing kind of guy. But he had barely settled in when he got the urgent call from Tom: Someone had tried to kill Michael. In his family home. That wasn’t _business_. Al felt a moment of guilt, before it was swallowed by a terrible anger that he had to physically rein back so as not to cause a car wreck on his way to the Corleone compound. And now things were going to get serious.

Al gazed at Michael for a few more seconds, then took in the placement of the room at a glance: the tense, poised figure of the Don behind his desk, Tom seated unobtrusively at his side. _Serious_ , his instinct confirmed. Al wondered if he was about to be punished for his over-long absence tonight. For his failure. Either this setup was because he was in the shit, or because there was some new move brewing now, disastrous or important enough that it required both a _caporegime_ and the de facto _consiglieri_ to deal with it.

“Al.” Michael nodded at the younger man and left off touching his face – Al noticed that his hand was shaking – gesturing to a chair before the desk. “Sit down.” Al took it quietly, hoping he was not betraying how Michael’s attention could rattle him when he laid it on like this.

“You’ve been with me for how long now?” Michael continued, gazing at him levelly, cool as ice given that someone had tried to murder him a bare hour before. As usual, Al had no idea what the man was thinking, only that he was sure Michael knew the term of his involvement with the Corleones to a day.

“Five years, just about,” he said. He saw Michael nod.

“Time flies.” He said it as if he was fifty, thought Al. He had never known Michael as a youth, but couldn’t imagine it had suited him. “You’ve been completely true to me so far.” Al nodded, the old blaze of pleasure at his boss’s praise tempered by his new analytical turn of mind, as well as a pressing concern for Michael’s wellbeing; something that had not entered his head as a proper thought before tonight but which had been growing, unformed, since he had first seen that weary hand gesture.

“Mike?” said Tom encouragingly, after a pause. Michael shot a glance at his brother.

“I trust you, Al.” The return of his attention was like a beacon. Al had always felt it as a call, this desire to be of service to Michael. It was different for Rocco, even Tom, he understood: they had belonged to the old Don, and in future they might be inherited by another. Al’s loyalty, he knew in his bones, had been born for this and only this. But Michael was still talking.

“And I trust you’ll prove yourself again when I go.” Al stared at him, thrown. “I’m disappearing,” Michael said flatly. “Tonight. Now. I’m leaving Tom in total control.” Al could feel his eyebrows traveling up his forehead: an acting Don was not unheard-of in times of crisis, but Tom had been out of the loop for months now. And besides, there was the old hurdle: he simply was not Italian. But Michael looked immovable.

“We’re set to make our play in Cuba soon,” went on Michael, “and now it’s getting complicated. _Legitimacy_.” He said the word as if it was some mythical creature: marvelous and simply unlikely. “I’m going to have to sort this out personally. And I need to be sure my family is safe.”

“Okay,” said Al, mentally cataloging what he’d need to bring along. “Where’re we going?”

“You’re not going anywhere. You and Rocco are staying put, and you’re going to support Tom in whatever he needs. Until I can fix everything.” Oh, Al did not like that one bit.

“You need a bodyguard,” he stated bluntly. “Especially now.”

“I’ve got one arranged,” said Michael. “No need for concern.” Well, Al was damn concerned. It had been some time since he had worked as Michael’s personal guard, but he knew he was the best, and his Don could afford nothing less. Added to this was an uncomfortable feeling of propriety, which Al did not recognize as jealousy simply because he refused to think of himself as so petty.

Michael twitched the right side of his mouth upward in an odd expression that looked both sympathetic and utterly humorless. Al suspected his boss knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Most crucially,” he said, “I need someone who is not already known to the associates of Hyman Roth, here or in Havana.”

“Ah.” That explained it. Al had never been involved in negotiations with the Jewish empire builder, but he had met Johnny Ola, and he knew Michael must have his suspicions about Roth’s role in tonight’s events. Michael _always_ had suspicions. “…Sure, Boss. Whatever you need.”

“Good,” said Michael, giving the rare small smile that reached his eyes. Al was surprised and flattered that he could summon up even that much. “You’ll be a strong right hand to Tom.” He patted his brother firmly on the shoulder, then stopped smiling. “This may take some time; weeks, even longer. I’m relying on you.”

Upon hearing this, Al felt a complicated mixture of gratification and dismay that he could not remember experiencing before. He couldn’t quite pin it down, not now, not under Michael’s stern gaze that was as much a distraction to introspective thought as a streetlamp is to a moth. But it didn’t matter: a request from Michael might no longer be a command from God, but it carried as much inevitability.

“We’ll handle it.”

Michael gave him another long look, then nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He pushed his hair distractedly out of his face. Al thought that if he had been alone with Tom, Michael might allow himself the luxury of looking afraid, but that wasn’t going to happen until he was on his way. Al stood up and made to go, but Michael beckoned him back.

“Take care of my family. You understand?”

“Got it,” Al confirmed soberly, because if Michael felt the need to say something twice you could bet it was twice as important. He saw that smile again, fainter this time and with more effort; then his boss was pushing himself out of his chair and rounding the desk to face him.

Michael held out his hand, wearing what Kay and Tom had come to think of as his ‘Don’ face, which was subtly different from his private or ‘home’ expression. From the corner of his eye Al thought he could see Tom smiling indulgently – perhaps at the resemblance of Don Michael Corleone to his father – though his face soon dropped back into worry. Al looked down at the head of his Family. He had said weeks; more, maybe. This, then, was the longest he would be without Michael’s centering presence, the magnetic gravity of his face, since they had first met. Al thought he deserved the luxury of looking.

Michael was tiny – any man in the room could stand taller than him, as could his wife – but gave off such an impression of power that it was hardly noticeable. Al was not a tall man himself, despite his great physical strength. Still, when his boss turned his hand at an unmistakable angle and Al bent to kiss it – this meeting marked an undertaking of the utmost gravity, after all – well, he really had to lean down. It was always a surprise to Al, how small Michael was once you got past the aura.

“Don Corleone,” he muttered, pressing his mouth to Michael’s knuckles; maybe harder than protocol demanded, but he hadn’t grown up giving this kind of obeisance, and besides, it was a measure of his sincerity. He felt the hand twitch, as if Michael were startled; then his fingers closed on Al’s momentarily, his grip firm. Al was obscurely comforted by the feeling, which was channeled straight to his instincts rather than the thinking part of his brain. To him the grip conveyed strength, leadership, and the boundless confidence that they could rely on this man not to fuck everything up.

Michael patted his follower on the shoulder with his free hand, and bent his head to Al’s ear. “Do this right, huh?” he murmured, his tone rich with the comradeship of their first meeting; a tone that Al had come to realize was simply a tactic, almost akin to seduction, pitched deliberately to draw in and win over the uncomplicated sort of man he had once been. He did not resent it, even so. “For me,” Michael added, before he let go. At that, Al felt a faint shiver, which was unpleasant only in that he had no idea what it meant.

An hour later Michael had vanished.

 

* * *

 

 

Al did his job, and he did it well. Still, it felt like the longest wait of his life. As usual he was not given the big picture, but his gut told him that this Cuban design was growing in scope and complication with every week that passed and his boss did not return. Not once did he see Michael, or even hear his voice on the telephone. Tom was no doubt in contact with him; but for the rest of the Family, it was as if Don Corleone had disappeared off the face of the Earth.

By the time he at last made it home, it seemed that the long weeks had been for nothing in any case: everything had managed to fuck itself up in spite of Michael’s care. It was the first time Al had known anything to go truly, disastrously wrong for his Don. It could hardly have been otherwise, in the end; but if ever Al had needed proof that Michael Corleone was human, here it was. From the national catastrophe of a political coup to the personal blow to the heart of Fredo’s betrayal, Michael had been unable to regroup in time.

For a few days Al had been stunned, though logically speaking Michael could not have done anything but retreat gracefully. Truth be told, Al had been worried about Michael coming back, about what he might discover in himself when he did. He dreaded meeting and perhaps finding himself _judging_ his boss, feeling his faith in Michael’s strength ebb away. He did not know what he would do if he lost the focal point that gave his actions purpose.

In the end, the only thing the meeting taught him was that he need never worry about a crisis of faith again. Sure, when Al first laid eyes on Michael it had been impossible to take in his exhausted posture without enumerating the number and extent of his defeats: Cuba, Roth, Fredo, and the loss of his unborn child. But beneath that, Al found to his joy that his impulse toward loyalty was as strong as ever in its foundations. Maybe it was what he inferred from Michael’s tone as he told them what was going to happen next: obstinacy, purpose and a cold, bright will to revenge. Or perhaps that, for once, he could almost see beneath the surface of Michael’s expression. Somehow, seeing the pain and weariness there, dismissed and unacknowledged by their owner in favor of more useful emotions, made Al feel more invested in his boss’s interests than ever before.

So, Al reflected later, things changed, or at least went in circles. The Godfather’s circumstances were altered, his genius turning inward now to retribution rather than outward to going legitimate. Just like the old New York days. And now that he was alone, Al could consider his own reaction. His initial impression was just of an overwhelming relief that his faith still held. But now, staring at the ceiling of his cottage on the estate, he tried to step away from his feelings, to walk around them and examine them. He wasn’t great at it, but he thought that maybe they had changed after all. It was the _type_ of change that bothered and eluded him: whether it was simply an increase in intensity, or a shift in their fundamental nature.

At last he gave up and resigned himself to the fact that, whatever his allegiance to Michael Corleone had been in his period of triumph, it was nothing to the devotion he felt at this moment of defeat.

 

* * *

 

 

For all that Al smelled change in the air, nothing of note happened for some time. Michael reclaimed his responsibilities from Tom, who was clearly relieved, though he had acted with competence throughout. Al was with Michael or the others every day, took Kay and the kids out sometimes. It was the only way he could tell Michael was concerned about the effect all this had had on his family; it never showed on his face, not even under Al’s scrutiny. Michael’s face, now he had collected himself, was like an empty sheet of paper.

Nevertheless, Al knew something was building. He could feel it crackling at the nape of his neck, the same sensation he’d had as a cop when he knew a street was about to go bad or that something wrong was happening behind a closed door. But he had no justification for it until Michael gave him another job.

If there was one thing Michael wanted to know – more than Hyman Roth’s next move, more than what the FBI were currently up to in Vegas – it was the whereabouts of his brother. Al understood this: it was of double import, Fredo being both business and personal. And nobody seemed to have the answer, not their mother, not the famous ex-wife, not even Tom. Al knew Michael must have explored every avenue of possibility before summoning him. But he also knew, in his bones, that he would be the one to find Fredo. Because Michael commanded it.

“If he turns up dead?” asked Al, who liked to be clear about these things. He observed a muscle tighten momentarily in Michael’s jaw – he had his left profile turned toward Al, the side he’d had broken years ago. The surgery to fix it up had left it very slightly easier to read than the right side, and the fact that he presented it to Al at all was another mark of trust in his _caporegime_. Michael gazed at a pattern of leaves meandering across the lawn.

“Then I want to know who, and when, and how,” he said coolly.

“And if he’s just hiding?”

“Don’t touch him.” Michael turned to face him properly, the breeze tugging at his fastidiously groomed hair. Al didn’t think the warning was necessary, but then again, when Al Neri was sent after important men it was usually so they could wind up dead. “Don’t let him spot you. Just have him watched and come back. I’ll send Tom to talk to him.”

Al nodded. He wouldn’t allow himself another long absence from his Godfather. This time, he’d make it quick.

 

* * *

 

 

It was three weeks, in the end. Al experienced a strong sense of homecoming as the gates closed behind his car and the sprawling silhouette of the Nevada compound appeared against the sky. He allowed himself to enjoy it: this time there were no nagging fears about his own loyalty to prevent it.

The study was as dark and comfortable as ever; Michael must be the only man with conservative tastes left in this State of screaming neon. Tom opened the door for him and slipped out, yawning surreptitiously; it was three in the damn morning, after all. Al heard it close behind him as Michael beckoned. He made himself walk slowly. For just a moment Michael blinked, as if shuffling his mental index cards to remember what Al was there for. Al took note of this, tucking it away in a section marked ‘concerning’ before allowing the pleasure of seeing his Don to take over.

Michael came out from behind the desk, raised eyebrows the only outward show of his eagerness to hear Al’s answer. Al nodded, felt Michael’s attention focus on him in the way that always left him inwardly stammering, though he knew all Michael cared about was whether he had done his job.

“Where?”

“San Francisco,” Al said without further delay. “Not New York after all. He’s all right.” He heard Michael give a muted sigh, which coming from him was a huge display of excitement.

“Have him brought back here,” he ordered, subdued again. “Quickly. I don’t have time for Tom to reach out first, but don’t spook him more than you can help.” Al must have looked like he had questions; he watched Michael’s eyes move over his face. “I need him,” was the only explanation he got. Al shrugged to himself; it was enough. No explanation at all was required, from Michael.

“No problem.”

“Thank you,” said Michael neutrally, then just…stopped. Al assumed he had dropped into thought. It sometimes happened, when he had a sudden revelation or made a new mental connection that required immediate consideration. But no, it felt different this time; like he had switched off. It was hardly Al’s place to interrupt, but he found he could not just leave, either. So he decided to take this opportunity to try and read his boss.

To his amazement, he could do it. For the first time in his life he could _see_ Michael, and the mere fact of it unsettled him. It felt like looking at someone through a two-way mirror, like Michael had no idea he was being observed and had allowed his permanent guard to drop. Everything that had happened to him, all the past and present, suddenly seemed etched there on his face. Al wasn’t sure if he was more fascinated or horrified at the sight.

Michael’s expression was the same as ever, sober and withdrawn, his hair neat and impeccably tailored clothing tidy, even in the middle of the night. But, like a trick picture when the line of sight changes, Al could see the grief and fury of recent events riding heavy on his familiar features. That sort of thing was to be expected, in a normal man, Al told himself; after all, life was hard and bound to leave scars.

But Michael was very far from a normal man, and the ravages of life had rarely left a visible mark. And so it was with a shock that he realized his Don, and by extension himself, would never be young and without care again. Looking now at his face, his hands, Michael was so very white; well, he always had been, even with his pure Sicilian blood, much more so than his parents and siblings. But there was a distinction to be made between pleasantly fair and pale, and Michael was now decidedly the latter. Had the man moved from his office in the last month? Did he still sit out in the sun with his mother, did he play with his children?

Al was surprised at himself. What kind of thoughts were these? His inner monologue had turned into a damn woman.

He directed his gaze to the middle distance instead; if Michael chose to focus on the interests of the Family to the detriment of his private life, that was his own business. Besides, this interview was starting to feel…odd. He wanted to slip away and think about things. Certainly didn’t want Michael to know Al had been staring at him like Michael was his own private picture show.

Again, though, he found it impossible to leave his boss like this. So he just stood there, and Michael stood there, black brows furrowed against the ivory of his skin. More seconds passed, Al wasn’t sure how many. He cleared his throat.

“Michael?” he said carefully, hoping to attract his attention. No reaction to that. “Don Corleone?” he tried again, louder, and saw Michael’s head jerk up wearily. How many times, thought Al, had people called him by that name, asking for favors, advice, judgement? He had no idea how the heads of the other Families, many of them well into their seventies, kept at it for as long as they did.

“Al,” said Michael at last, as if he had only just noticed him. He smiled, the rote smile that couldn’t quite make it as far as his eyes; then his arms opened in the standard fraternal gesture of friendship. Al knew that when it came to Don Corleone this gesture could mean anything, though he trusted it actually _did_ mean trust in his own case. He crossed the carpet quickly to embrace his boss. Michael gave him a comradely slap on the back, arms tight around him; it was another of his rituals to maintain the illusion of equality, but Al had never minded that. Michael felt as strong as ever, and Al might have thought he had imagined the last five minutes if it hadn’t been for the faint, fatigued tremble in the older man’s limbs.

Al recognized that for what it was, pure body tiredness that came with not enough exercise and too much concentration. He almost felt relieved, because the solution was so straightforward: a little sleep, and Al would never again have to see the eerie specter of the cares that hung on Michael.

“You did well to find him,” Michael murmured, getting back to the point at last. He sounded so tired that Al wished he could make him lie down and sleep right there at his desk. Well, maybe he could; it wasn’t like other people didn’t try and tell Michael what to do, in both business and private. It just didn’t work all that often.

Before he could offer any sage advice, however, Michael had stepped back, taken Al’s head in both hands, and was regarding him at arm’s length with a certain sleepy approval. Al found himself basking in his boss’s approbation, even as his troublesome brain observed from a distance and wondered what this performance meant. Maybe Michael _had_ noticed him staring, had realized his subordinate had seen him unguarded and vulnerable, and was now distracting him with affection like a kid with candy.

Whatever Al’s analytical side thought about all this, the underside that thrived on reflex and reaction didn’t care. That side just enjoyed the suggestion of power in Michael’s short fingers, bent its head and presented its cheek to receive his cool, undemonstrative kiss. It was a gesture that with any other Italian would be warm and exaggerated, when it was used like this to show praise. Al had never expected such theatrics of Michael. Still, he was given a friendly pat on the face that made him glow like it did every time; for a moment Michael’s pale temple rested against his jaw.

That weary lean confirmed every thought Al had had that night about Michael’s state of mind, every suspicion about his wellbeing that had been a persistent itch at the back of his neck since before Cuba. And he found he could not ignore it.

Al had worked hard for years to build the level of stoicism that the Corleones looked for in a close associate. It had not been particularly easy; his early reputation for lashing out was well founded. But he had managed it, and now only let his emotions push him to action at his boss’s behest.

However, Al was to discover that stoicism had its limits, because right then he felt such an unwelcome rush of fellowship and pity and pride that it made his head spin, at what this man was capable of enduring. And as it came, all his carefully-learned restraint and thought retreated in a wave, leaving the old, primitive core exposed.

Al heard himself say Michael’s name in an entirely unfortunate tone, and before he knew it he was moving, just a few inches needed, to press his mouth firmly against the other man’s in a gesture that was chaste but quite passionate with admiration.

The worshipful fog cleared in time for him to see Michael jerk back against the desk. For an instant he looked as unnerved – not afraid, he was never that – as if his _caporegime_ had just given him the kiss of death. Al, cursing inwardly, realized this would not be too big a leap to make, either: how many of Michael Corleone’s closest friends had screwed him over in the past, after all? Tessio, Pentangeli, Fredo; why not him?

Michael’s fingers turned steely against the back of Al’s neck, holding him still while he stared at him with those large hazel eyes opened wide. Al could see the thoughts hurtling back and forth behind them, far too fast to read. He was so aware of Michael that he had no idea what his own body was doing, but from the breathless way the older man was poised – tense as a leopard sizing up a bigger predator – it probably wasn’t anything helpful.

The small part of Al’s outraged rationality that was valiantly hammering on his brain told him that he had to do _something_ within the next second to convince the Don that Al wasn’t about to try and off him. But with his fear had come a surge of adrenaline that put his urges in almost complete control, and all he could think of was to kiss Michael again. It took every scrap of fortitude Al possessed to keep himself from trying.

All the while Michael was watching him raptly, one defensive hand still pinning him in place. As Al struggled with his gut instinct, however, the smaller man narrowed his eyes and let go, leaning back cautiously to get a broader view when his subordinate did not move. Al could feel that cold, invasive stare everywhere, knew that Michael was running through every possible scenario that could have led to this moment, and could only pray his latest impulse had been so beyond the pale that his boss would be able to make nothing of it.

Whatever Michael was thinking, Al was not to be privy to it. Michael stared at him for another small eternity, then dropped his gaze. This was both a relief to Al and another kind of dismay, as he found his eyes lingering on the curve of Michael’s lowered lashes – far too luxurious for a man, even his mother said so – with a quite different kind of admiration than the one he reserved for his Godfather’s mind.

“Back, please,” said Michael quietly, an odd note in his voice. He stood up straight so that Al was once again in his space, but this time it was with the full weight of his presence, the intangible force that made sensible men wary without him saying a word. Al’s instincts knew exactly how to react to that: he stepped away.

“Thank you,” said Michael. “That’s all for tonight.”

“Boss,” Al began urgently, because his brain was clicking back on – too late now, of course – and he knew he had to explain himself.

“No.” Michael interrupted him, the word soft and thoroughly chilling. As Al watched, stung into silence, Michael held out his hand, pale knuckles up, and waited grimly for his _caporegime_ to toe the line. Al found it both disconcerting and daunting, but he had no options. He took his boss’s hand and raised it to his lips as penitently as he could, given the circumstances.

“Don Corleone,” he muttered. Michael calmly disengaged himself and nodded at the door.

“Good night.” Al managed to return the salutation, and went out. Turning to shut the door behind him he saw Michael lean back against his desk, bloodless and pensive. Michael’s hand came up to press against his eyelids in that gesture Al had once been so fond of. Then the door closed on him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing? Who desecrates one of the finest cinematic performances of all time with slash fic? Oh well ^^;
> 
> Anyway. In the novel (awesome, but so much more discussion of penises than the movies would lead one to expect; Mario Puzo, you perv), Michael takes Al in because he decides he needs a "Luca Brasi" of his own: a man that is his to the death. So I've pitched Al like that, as incorruptibly loyal. But he's obviously more intelligent and less of a complete psycho than Luca :)


	2. Not Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Al, with a little help from his brain, finally recognizes his damn instincts for what they are, and Michael does something unexpected.

Al stayed awake until morning, wondering by how many days his life was numbered. After a shuddering hour of terror and madman’s exhilaration when he got back to his cottage, the adrenaline had finally left him; all that remained was to wonder what the _hell_ had happened and how he was going to pay for it. It was not a question of _if_ , merely of _when_.

Not for a minute did he consider leaving.

When he woke up later that afternoon he was only slightly surprised to find himself still alive. He knew Michael would want to get to the bottom of this, of _him_ , before he passed sentence. And Michael did nothing in a rush.

With no orders to countermand him, therefore, Al went back to work and arranged for a reliable crew to retrieve Fredo and bring him home. He fell back quickly into his old routine, with the constant sense of having a time-bomb strapped to his ribs; but nobody said a word about what he might have done to the Godfather in his office in the middle of the night. Least of all Michael.

Certainly, Michael had bigger things to think about. Al and Rocco had heard hints from Tom about the scale and depth of the investigation into ‘organized crime’ that was soon to begin reporting to the Senate committee. The FBI had that weasel Cicci in protective custody, and much worse, Frank fucking Pentangeli. Al’s eyes had narrowed when he heard what Five Angels was planning to confess, his lips thinning and sallow face turning a furious red.

“Don’t bother with that look,” said Tom, who knew Al Neri’s killer instinct perfectly well. “We can’t get to him. The Feds have got him locked down tighter than Alcatraz.”

Al accepted the sense of this, but brooded over it on Michael’s behalf: it was inexcusable in anyone, let alone an underboss. No matter what Pentangeli thought Michael had done to him, no matter what deal he was getting, a man did not throw the head of his Family to the Government wolves. What ever happened to _omert_ _à_? thought Al, appalled. The thought of Michael Corleone on the stand personally offended him. He could not even fathom the idea of Michael being found guilty. But it would take a stroke of genius to get them off the hook this time.

Luckily, Michael had genius to spare, and plenty of weapons still in his arsenal. Unluckily, one of those weapons was apparently Fredo, who had been deposited at the compound to speak to Tom and then await his brother’s pleasure. Al did not know exactly what was divulged at that meeting, or what kind of painful nonsense Fredo had dared say to Michael’s face. Just that Michael walked out of the freezing sunroom quite composed, with a complexion the color of ash and a voice so muted Al had to strain to hear it.

“I don’t want anything to happen to him. Not while my mother is alive.”

Al nodded, feeling a shiver pass along his spine as Michael straightened his shoulders determinedly and went off to make his plans. If Al’s own fate was still uncertain, Fredo Corleone’s days might just be numbered.

 

* * *

 

 

The Corleone Family came out of the investigation with a name that was, if not exactly clear, then at least not demonstrably criminal. Al was still amazed by the tactic Michael and Tom had used against Pentangeli, who had in the nick of time remembered the code of silence. Al had arranged to have Frank’s brother taken to and from his plane, marveling at his boss the whole time. And now Five Angels would get to take the honorable way out, his family name protected and Al robbed of his pleasant revenge fantasies. Still, all’s well that ends well, thought Al sourly. And the trial was the _only_ thing that had ended well.

First Connie gone, then Fredo. And now Kay. Michael’s Family might be intact, but his _family_ was splitting apart in spite of all his efforts. Al heard about the fight from Rocco, who had been tactfully waiting in the next room.

“Not like I was trying to listen,” the other _caporegime_ told Al as he filled his plate with bread and tortellini, “but by the end they were at it like two dogs scrapping. Never knew she had it in her.”

“What did she say?” asked Al, who could believe anything of women after his own beloved wife had up and left. Since then he had held them of little interest and smaller account. But whatever Kay had said had _done_ something to Michael, and Al was hankering to know what it was. Rocco shook his head slowly.

“Can’t tell.” He shook it again at Al’s look of surprise. “It was too… Christ, Al, women are cruel. Mike was right to let her go.”

It was years before Al found out what Kay had done, but the effect on Michael at the time was instantaneous. His plans to strike back at their enemies continued unobtrusively; but in his private life he began to retreat more and more to the main house, drawing his family close to him – his children, his mother, Tom. And yet, it seemed to Al that his boss was struggling to connect now that he had them. Even Al spent more time playing with the children than Michael, having been given the responsibility of checking up on their nanny. Al didn’t mind kids one way or the other, but at times he suspected this was a punishment.

If it was, it was the only one he had received. Al knew better than to imagine Michael had forgotten about what happened that night – the night he was trying very hard never to think about. But he had not been banished, had not been snubbed. Possibly Michael spoke to him less; but he spoke less to everybody these days.

Sometimes Al could feel Michael looking at him. After that night, though, Al had not once been able to tell what he was thinking: he did not seem particularly angry, or particularly happy, or particularly _anything_. Al had a limited capacity for imagery, but it was as if Michael had been covered by a thin but heavy layer of blank gauze. It was this blankness that made him worry about his boss’s welfare more than ever, because he was sure it hid something harmful.

 

* * *

 

 

As well as checking on the kids, Al was now in charge of overseeing security for the compound, including the tightly guarded main house. Not having a spouse to annoy by getting up at all hours of the night, he often did a couple of patrols himself. He liked to be thorough: Michael was intensely protective of his children, even if he had a hard time expressing his affection in front of them.

If the children were Michael’s instinctive priority, Al could not help it if Michael was his. On finishing his rounds he frequently passed the stairs that led to the older man’s small suite of rooms, and whenever he did so he found himself looking up. Michael slept alone now, when he slept at all; he was not like other men, who would have acquired another woman to keep themselves warm almost without thinking. Al often pondered the reason, though he tried not to because it was so blatantly disrespectful.

Speculating did not help, anyway; every time it happened Al inevitably found himself dwelling on his own inclinations _vis a vis_ his Don, and that was a train of thought that could only lead to disaster. He shouldn’t even look, should not be picturing Michael up there in the dark, that perfect mind ticking away and suppressing god knew what emotional stakes. He –

Al did look up, and spotted movement: the white of shirtsleeves in the darkness. Without willing it, he came to a standstill.

“Who is it?” demanded a quiet voice. As Al’s eyes adjusted he saw Michael come into view, one hand at his back where Al knew there would be a gun. Jumpy, then. But that was hardly surprising.

“Me,” Al called softly, because that stance suggested a man on edge, and he knew Michael well enough to know that he would not miss. He saw Michael pause before his weapon hand moved back to his side.

“…Ah.” Not much of an answer, but what did he expect when the man had such good reason to be wary of him? Michael looked down at him, pale in the dim light from the corridor.

“Anything I can get you?” asked Al cautiously, because he needed some excuse to be stopped here, however pathetic. Michael did not appear mollified. At this point Al’s brain told him sternly to walk away; and yet there he was beginning to climb the stairs, because it was late and he was tired and the damn instinct to be always at his boss’s side was so terribly strong. All he knew was that here was Michael, and what else was his life but this, to reach toward the man who had shown him that he had a future, who was a destiny all by himself?

Yes, thought Al helplessly, let _that_ be the reason. He could just about cope with doing something so immensely stupid if it was all the fault of metaphysical bullshit. What he could not cope with were the still frames he kept seeing between blinks as he climbed: Michael’s lashes, the stern beauty of his features, his white skin against the velvet dark around him.

Michael had frozen, his posture careful as Al moved closer. How hard it looked, though, keeping that control; Al could almost, almost see the latest weariness and misery threatening to break through his composure. At that, Al promptly forgot about himself and aimed his concern at the man above him: how long was it since he had been this close to Michael alone? He had not known how bad things had gotten. Al felt a crushing amount of responsibility for that, because whatever title the Don gave him, he was by nature a bodyguard. Michael did not look at all well, which meant Al had been falling down on his job; had neglected his duty because of one misguided act of affection.

It would not do.

Al was two narrow steps below Michael when the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder; just enough to preserve the height advantage. Michael’s jaw was tight, body language a clear warning. But all Al saw was the worn-out look on his boss’s face that carved the lines deeper around his eyes. And it was incredible: even so battered by care that he had maybe not slept for days, Michael was still positively magnetic. No wonder he felt this way, Al told himself in defiance of his common sense. This man was enough to inspire…well, everything.

“It’s late, Al,” Michael told him, sounding put-upon. “I’m tired.” Al could feel that well enough in the exhausted weight of the hand still restraining him.

“You should get more sleep, Boss. It’s not good for you.” Now Al just sounded dumb, like he was talking to little Tony rather than the head of the Corleone dynasty. He saw Michael’s mouth give a tiny twitch that could be a thin smile or just a weary tic.

“I don’t need a lot these days,” Michael said absently, waving away the advice as if getting a good eight hours was an unpardonable luxury. “You shouldn’t worry about me so much. Worry about your job.”

His tone was neutral, but something suggested that last part was a warning. It was not caution enough for Al, who was still half mesmerized by a mixture of protective instinct and sheer infatuation. His body was doing whatever the hell it liked again, just as it had that night, and before he knew it he was reaching upward to set a supportive hand against his Godfather’s back without a thought for self-preservation.

“This _is_ my job,” Al stated with blithe disregard for his own health. Michael was staring at him silently, like he did not even know how to respond to such a show of imbecility. “You oughta go get some rest. If you want I can wait right there.” For a second Michael’s eyes closed and Al saw him wince as if physically pained; he quickly collected himself, but Al had caught it. How long had it been, he wondered dimly, since someone last offered to stay with Michael? Not for his protection or favor but just…for him.

He was so close now, and he had got this far and been this stupid. What did one more foolhardy move matter? thought Al’s brain, which was watching almost detachedly as his hand slid to the back of Michael’s neck. Al stretched up and touched his forehead to the older man’s, the way you would with a blood relative or a lover; and suddenly, skin against Michael’s cool skin, he could sense that perhaps his boss _wanted_ to relent, to just once let someone else take charge of his welfare.

Michael swallowed, then took a careful breath before leaning back to look his follower in the face.

“I’ve been thinking a lot since Fredo,” Michael said in a low voice, watching him with the brand of attention that Al found nearly hypnotic. “About trust. And now I’m thinking about you.” His hand tightened to a hard grip on Al’s shoulder. “How do I know I can count on you, Al?” he asked, eyes flickering over his face. “Trust you like _blood_?” he added bitterly.

Al knew that Michael must have been questioning whether to rely on him even in the normal course of business. And this was another sphere of risk entirely. He knew how dangerous it was for Don Corleone to even think of letting someone see him vulnerable, not just for his own safety but for his reputation that was the cornerstone of the whole Family. What was Al, after all? Not Michael’s mother, who was the only person with a chance in hell of hearing her son’s personal fears. Not even his wife had been so privileged. Now here was Al, bound to him not by blood but by what must seem the most unreliable kind of loyalty, with ambiguous intentions and quite unbelievable impertinence. It was a wonder Michael even let him in the house.

For a minute Al said nothing. He was trying desperately to regroup his thoughts, because if there was ever a time that his brain should take control, it was now. Michael waited, still scrutinizing him. Al was so busy wrangling his rationality into submission that he did not notice his hand drifting back over Michael’s collar to feel the comforting solidity of his small shoulders, the wool of his vest soft beneath Al’s fingers. Only when he heard the slight, tired hitch in Michael’s breath did he realize what he was doing.

“You wanna know that you can trust me,” Al said hurriedly, taking his hand away. He did not care for the sound of his voice: neither calm nor reasonable. He would just have to hope Michael heard past that to the words. “Okay. First: you trust your own judgement, right?”

“…Generally speaking,” replied Michael, with an edge to his tone.

“Then you oughta trust me.” Al paused to search for the words that sounded the least hokey. “That’s why you chose me, isn’t it. That’s why you got me off the charges, and took me in and were so good to me that it was _impossible_ not to want to kill for you. Because you needed a man who was absolutely loyal to you: yours to the death. He didn’t have to be smart, better if he wasn’t, actually. He just had to obey your word like there wasn’t any other.”

“Is that what I needed,” said Michael, _sotto voce_.

“Yeah,” said Al, “and you picked me, and it musta been for a reason, Boss, and that reason is your own sound judgement. ‘Cause you picked right.”

“You’ve spent time thinking about this.” There was a faint note of surprise in Michael’s even voice, like one of his guard dogs had just up and performed a party trick. Which seemed like a pretty apt analogy, thought Al.

“Yes,” said Al. Michael kept quiet, so he carried on. “Y’know, Pentangeli used to tell stories about your father and that guy, Luca Brasi.” Michael gave him a sharp look at that, but waited to see where this was going. “And I’m thinking, maybe you wanted a Luca Brasi of your own. Well, you got one, that’s me: loyal beyond reason.”

“…You’re not much like Luca,” said Michael quietly. “As it turns out.”

“Only because I can think,” Al pointed out.

“In all sorts of ways.”

“Well, it was you who taught me.” Michael looked obscurely displeased, as though Al had learned that lesson a little too well. Al sighed through his nose in frustration. He couldn’t find the words to point out that it didn’t matter: that, although his occasional sparks of intellect disagreed with his intuition over many things, when it came to loyalty his instincts _always_ won out. And every instinct he’d ever had strained toward Michael Corleone like a plant yearns for the light.

“It’s…personal,” he said at last, defeated by his lack of eloquence. “It trumps business.”

Michael cocked his head at that, thoughtful. Those big eyes gave nothing away, but beneath the horror at his own presumption Al thought he could sense a tiny, tiny lessening of tension. Michael’s shoulders seemed to sink in a way that would be invisible to anyone less obsessively interested than Al. So he raised his hand again, spread his palm flat against Michael’s back and nudged him forward, encountering no resistance. It was taking an awful chance, he knew; but Michael wanted to trust someone, _wanted_ to let go of that exhausting poise; and Al wanted to make him.

“I’m your guy, Michael,” he said solemnly. “You know it. Just say the word.”

A long pause. “Then let go, please,” muttered Michael.

Al told himself to do just that, but instead found himself giving an unplanned but ardent “ _No_.” His heedless arm was still drawing the other man closer. The grip on Al’s shoulder grew painful, and for an instant Michael’s forehead pressed against his, the smaller man finally breaking eye contact as those thick lashes dipped closed. Al could feel Michael’s brow furrow, could hear his quick exhalation of breath as Al tugged him forward in a shocked ecstasy of connection. Then Michael pushed him, decisive, and Al found himself stumbling precariously at the edge of his stair. Fortunately, his reflexes had remained remarkable as he began his march into middle-age spread, and it was that alone which kept him from splitting his skull open on the landing below.

In Al’s fight to keep his balance Michael had disengaged himself, moved up a stair and was looking down at him. Al thought he could spot a flicker of disappointment beneath the chill. It was the _no_ that did it, thought Al wildly, as if the rest of his actions had been anything less than cretinous; talking back to Michael Corleone! Michael would not lie down under that for anyone: not his sister, not his children, not anyone.

Al knew he must look flushed and shamefaced; he could feel his pulse leaping at the risk he had taken, not to mention the memory of Michael’s skin, his –

“Sorry,” he said meekly, before he could get any further with _that_.

“If I can’t rely on you to do as I ask when I ask it,” Michael replied in a low, exhausted voice, “you think I should trust you this close to me?”

“No,” said Al, immediately, no longer even trusting himself; he’d had no thought but to ensure his boss’s wellbeing, and look what had happened. His impulses were completely out of whack.

“No,” Michael agreed, staring at his subordinate with a new blank intensity that made Al feel like Michael was looking right past him. Without another word he turned on his heel and slowly made his way up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 

Al knew that he would not be able to put it off much longer: sooner or later he would have to confront the urges that had led to this fiasco. He did not want to, because he felt in his gut that when he sat down and truly thought about these impulses toward his boss, they would turn out to be simply _un_ thinkable. And then he would have no choice but to submit himself to Michael for sentencing. Feeling cowardly for the first time in his life, Al hoped for something to intervene before that happened.

 

He was rewarded in the worst possible way: the next day, Carmela Corleone died.

 

Al stood quietly at the visitation with the other Family members who had come to pay their respects, and wondered what it meant to feel guilt for something you had absolutely no control over. He saw Connie leave the room in search of her brother; seemed that when Fate took away with one hand it gave with the other, he thought, appalled; but Michael would hardly welcome the exchange.

Michael had been absent for the majority of the wake; unwilling to be in the same room as Fredo, Al had assumed. So when his boss appeared, everyone stopped, waiting to see what would happen. To Al’s astonishment Michael walked straight up to his brother, opened his arms, and accepted Fredo’s frantic embrace. Al felt uneasy at the sight; he could not reconcile this with what he had come to understand about Michael and his inexorable justice. But there it was: grief could change a man, and perhaps it was for the best because blood was blood.

Connie hovered nearby, a tremulous smile spreading through her tears. Then Michael raised his head, still holding his brother, and looked straight at Al. What Al saw in that dry-eyed look sent such a chill through him it was all he could do to stop himself recoiling, because the message in Michael’s eyes told him exactly what was going to happen. Their mother was gone, and he had made his decision. And it would be Al who had to enact it.

 

* * *

 

 

Night had come round again. The funeral was over and the mourners had left without Michael so much as dropping a tear. Al understood the need for Don Corleone to present a strong front to the outside world, but this was…not usual. It was quite proper to cry at your mother’s funeral, and what’s more, it was _healthy_. Al’s own mama always said Sicilian men cried as much as they laughed. He could not remember the last time Michael had done either; and now the only person who might know was in the ground.

Al was so busy being worried that he found he had been checking half the house security on autopilot, and would have to go round again. He was just done when he crossed paths with Rocco in the main entrance hall; they nodded to each other.

“If you’re gonna report, he’s in the boathouse,” Rocco told him. Al changed course, and could _feel_ the other man giving him the side-eye as he left. That was getting to be a frequent thing. Rocco wasn’t dumb or unobservant; odds were he had caught the thoughtful looks their boss had been giving Al, and was wondering what they meant; enough to guess that Michael was feeling suspicious. Al just worried about what reason Rocco attached to that suspicion.

Still, right now Rocco’s opinion didn’t matter. Only one man mattered.

Al found Michael where the other _caporegime_ had said, sitting in the half-dark and staring out at the black water of the lake. Michael waited for Al to close the door, then lifted one finger from the arm of his chair.

“The compound’s clear,” Al told him. “The boys at the gate say all the guests on the list have gone, except the ones staying over.” Michael had not turned to look at him, but Al could feel his ears turning red; it was the first time he had spoken with Michael alone since…well, the last time. Nervousness. He never used to feel it. “Tom put Connie in her old suite,” he added, bracing himself; mentioning Michael’s sister was skirting uncomfortably close to the subject of his brother. Coward or not, Al did not want to hear what Michael might have to say about Fredo tonight.

But Michael ignored the obvious segue, his gaze still pointed somewhere outside the windows. With dismal intuition, Al understood that in this moment Michael could not physically move under the unseen weight upon him: his own grief and everyone else’s, Connie’s gratitude at his reconciliation with his brother, and what that forgiveness really meant. Next to this, Al’s behavior on the staircase was a tiny drop of water in the lake of his boss’s cares.

“Fine,” said Michael at last, just above a murmur. Al saw him blink, and his eyes stayed closed for a span of seconds before he opened them again like it was a personal victory against exhaustion.

This refusal, or perhaps inability, to do something as natural as fall asleep prompted Al’s godawful instincts into life yet again. Looking at Michael sitting there, he felt a swell of intense yearning; it seemed that Al’s mind had at last decided to engage with his animal heart, and the two were in perfect agreement about what he felt for this man: protective, and possessive, terrified and inspired.

And _hungry_ ; that was the worst of it! That was brand new. Al knew he wasn’t a fruit and was damn sure Michael wasn’t, but God above, you just had to _look_ at him: pinned in place with exhaustion, completely formidable, and he was still so fucking beautiful it nigh-on hurt.

In that flash of revelation Al’s spirits sank so low they seemed nearly at a level with Michael’s. Every reverent impulse he had felt over these last months had a double meaning now, simultaneously honorable and impure: that kiss, confronting Michael on the stairs, every time the presence of his Godfather had given him pleasure.

Was this it, then? Was _this_ what he would have to confess? Al had promised himself he would examine his motives, find out what they meant and accept his Don’s punishment. But he had not imagined it would be this.

Al clenched his jaw so hard he felt his teeth grind together, reining in his damn mouth, which either wanted to say something over-protective and solicitous to Michael or just tell him everything; Al wasn’t sure which. And now was not the time for the latter, on the day the man had buried his parent.

He looked back, and was disturbed to find Michael gazing at him, apparently released from his reverie. Michael did not appear surprised at his subordinate’s lack of composure; his tired stare cataloged Al from head to foot, mouth set in a considering line. Then he looked him right in the face.

“Get me a drink,” Michael said calmly, the abrupt sound snapping Al out of his crisis. Al gladly broke eye contact to pour him a Canadian Club. Then, “Come here.”

Al handed him the glass, helplessly aware of the way Michael’s thumb smoothed across its cold surface. Before he could step aside, Michael’s attention was on him again. Without looking away Michael took a sip of his drink, set it down, and took hold of the front of Al’s shirt.

Al goggled at him, for once a complete blank both mentally and intuitively.

Wearing the same detached expression, Michael used his grip on Al’s front to draw himself to his full height. His weight tugged the younger man forward; then his arms closed around his _caporegime_ in that ambiguous embrace, which Al had successively interpreted as friendship, a leadership tactic and – having just seen Michael do it to Fredo – a death sentence. Then Michael turned his head to bury his face against Al’s substantial shoulder, and Al’s mind shut down and refused to guess anymore.

“Boss, is everything-” was all he managed to say before his voice wavered into silence. Al inclined his head irresistibly and inhaled through smooth, dark hair, catching smoke and the faint antiseptic scent of Vitalis. His heart jumped frantically two or three times before he gave in and folded his own arms around Michael’s back. He hardly dared to breathe. The smaller man was not relaxed, not at all, but neither was he perturbed, said Al’s capricious intuition. More _purposeful_.

“…Michael?” Al muttered against his boss’s temple. To his own ears he sounded as nervy as this dumb kid he had once seen at Central Park Zoo, teasing one of the panthers: baiting it and baiting it until the big cat was suddenly there, all teeth a foot from his face; the kid had just about had a fit. Al knew how he felt, because here Michael was in his arms, face hidden against him and Al _did not trust it_.

“Boss, you-”

“This is how it works.” Michael’s voice cut him off, a low murmur muffled by Al’s shirt. “Do you understand?”

Did he? Al wondered frantically. The older man held perfectly still, his poise forbidding any movement on Al’s part. And then he did understand: Things had to end up on Michael’s terms. They always did, no matter how long and tortured the process. Michael could be surprised by events, betrayed and undermined by people, but his ability to grimly adapt to the unexpected was nothing short of virtuoso. Al had done something unexpected – unacceptable – and Michael had been considering it all these months in his own inscrutable way. Now it seemed he had found a use for this new element in his bodyguard; now that the last person who could comfort him was dead.

So he had set his terms, and here they were: Michael would make a move, and Al would follow his lead. It was what Al had done since the day they met, and all he had ever wanted.

“Got it,” he told Michael. As soon as he spoke Michael exhaled, and Al took his weight as he leaned in. Oh, it felt good, terribly so, not merely from an altruistic point of view but in terms of pure, selfish sensation. Al tightened his arms around him gingerly.

“Things are gonna work out, you know,” Al assured him; he thought about this and amended it to “Eventually.” No reaction; evidently platitudes were not required. For another minute he held Michael hard, then began to nudge him toward the long sofa, because this close he could feel his boss was almost vibrating with fatigue. Michael held on, his small frame deceptively strong.

By the time Al maneuvered him over to the couch, skirting the low table, he had retreated slightly, hands resting against Al’s ample midriff. Al glanced at him, but he was looking down at the floor, a bitter frown darkening his face as though for once he did not care what Al read there.

“Second thoughts?” asked Al. Michael shook his head decisively, one hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck and draw him down. For a moment he was still, pale forehead touching Al’s. Then Michael kissed him.

Al had forgotten what it was like: the cool silk of Michael’s lips, the set of his closed mouth, and the sensual giddiness of his proximity, it was all the same as the first time. Except this time Michael had begun it. Al could not tell what it was intended to mean; he had not thought this intimacy was remotely about sex, did not think the other man would entertain that notion for a second. And yet Michael’s mouth was still pressed firmly against his own, his hand clutching Al’s collar urgently.

But Michael Corleone’s kiss, like his embrace, might mean any number of things.

Al wanted nothing more than to crush his boss to him, open his mouth and taste whiskey and smoke and whatever unique essence made Michael himself. To his great relief he found his brain was still cooperating, vetoing the mad impulse as soon as he felt it. Instead he simply accepted the enigmatic salute, one hand in the small of Michael’s back, and did not take one inch more than was being offered.

Michael broke off, gave a vague hum of what could be approval or just sleepiness, and kissed him again, light and austere. He still wore his wedding ring; Al could feel it resting cold against his cheek. He was thoroughly confused about what was happening; later he would find himself quite grateful for that, because if not for this wariness the sensations of Michael’s lips and the delicate strength of his fingers, the sight of his tired and luminous face, would have undone his restraint altogether.

At last Michael stopped, rocking back neatly on his heels and taking Al’s shoulders in both hands. Al knew that his boss could hear his rapid breath, would feel the stifled tremble caused by having to hold still. Michael, on the other hand, seemed to have lost a little of his own tension, as if something had been purged in the embrace. Now he only looked weary beyond measure, eyes melancholy, so that you might think he was just a normal man grieving for a loved one.

Al nodded to the sofa. “You wanna take a rest, Boss?” he suggested, hoping the hoarseness of his voice didn’t make it sound like a proposition. Michael sighed.

“Why not.” He let Al go and sat down heavily, the deep cushions sinking beneath him; for a second he pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, then unlaced his shoes, set them tidily at the side of the sofa, and stretched out. Al wondered if this should be his cue to leave; it might be better to make an exit before his apparently degenerate mind started turning the sight of his boss, with his tie loosened and a lock of hair disheveled by the cushions, into something improper.

“Stay here,” commanded Michael even as he thought it. So much for that idea. Al retreated to a chair that commanded a view of the door and windows, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable night.

For a long time Michael lay with his eyes open. Al thought that maybe he had gone without sleep for so long he could no longer remember how to do it, but the next time he looked they had slipped closed. His skin was so pale in the dim room that Al could see his dark eyelashes as two perfect half-moons against his cheeks.

It grew cold in the early hours; the converted boathouse was more exposed than the other rooms, jutting onto Lake Tahoe. When Al could see his own breath in front of him he went and fetched a blanket. Michael opened his eyes immediately as Al approached him, so maybe he had not been asleep at all. He took the blanket silently, gave him an ambivalent nod, and Al returned to his seat to spend the rest of the night in gloomy contemplation of his own deviance.

By the time Connie came to find her brother the next morning Michael was upright on the sofa, groomed and drinking coffee while Al read him the paper. His expression was somber and impenetrable once more, with no sign that anything extraordinary had occurred: it was as if nothing had changed. Only Al felt changed.

 


	3. You Won't Regret It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff actually happens, and as usual it's because of something depressing. We're coming to the end of The Godfather II now, so no prizes for guessing what.  
> All hail Michael, the Eeyore of mafia dons :)

Al was soon able to recognize the way the Corleone home had transformed since the funeral. One wing of the main house, where Connie and Fredo had been installed, held an atmosphere of understated happiness: Michael’s forgiveness was a heady drug. The children, Michael’s as well as Connie’s boys, spent time over there, and Tony especially was opening up to Fredo, responding to the man’s uncomplicated nature – Al didn’t want to call him a simpleton, but there it was – far more readily than he did to his father’s complexity.

The other side of the house was saturated with a hushed kind of intensity, because now he had his family where he wanted them Michael was free to return to the problem of Hyman Roth. He spent hours closeted in his office with Tom, relying on Al and Rocco to deal with the routine issues of his domain. Al knew Michael was frustrated by Roth’s continued absence and his plans to seek asylum in Israel – it would be near impossible to touch him there. But angry or grieving, at least his boss looked better. Older, maybe, but healthy.

Al felt he was to be congratulated at least partly for this. He could predict now when Michael would call on him: when the older man’s complexion was edging toward a cold pallor, when dark smudges began to appear beneath his eyes; when his hands started to lose their steadiness and his impassive mouth was drawn in a thin line of vexation, he would allow Al near him.

It was always Michael who initiated these episodes; Al supposed his boss knew best when to expel the poisonous buildup of his troubles. It did not happen often, but Al found himself practically living for those evenings when Michael would keep him back after the night report to step silently into his arms. Sometimes Michael held him so fiercely it hurt. Occasionally he would dismay and delight Al with more of those neat, decorous kisses that managed to be both platonic and so erotic it took all of Al’s concentration to keep his mind on his role.

After a while of this Michael would usually sleep, or at least lie down, his face temporarily free of whatever had been plaguing him over the preceding days. Which was the entire purpose of these strangely virtuous trysts, and therefore all to the good. Al would sit on the other side of the room and watch over him. During those long hours it felt as though he had taken all his Don’s cares into himself; but that wasn’t it, not really. No, if Al felt anything akin to despair on those nights, it was because every minute spent with his boss in his arms convinced him more deeply of his own aberrant nature, and one ineluctable fact: that he wanted Michael Corleone in every possible way.

 

* * *

 

 

Life settled into this pattern quite comfortably. Michael turned forty, and endured a birthday party with as much enjoyment as if his relatives were holding a gun to his head. Fredo was teaching Tony to fish. Things felt…peaceful.

Al had not known how much he mistrusted and even disliked this serenity until one of the gate guards brought the daily papers up. Al opened the _Los Angeles Examiner_ and saw it all begin to drain away at the sight of Hyman Roth’s name in a headline. And he felt glad.

“I know,” said Michael darkly when Al told him Roth was returning to the U.S. They all retreated to the private room at the back of Michael’s office. Rocco and Michael ate oranges while Tom sat there with his eternal legal files; Al stretched out in an armchair with his head back in an effort to look nonchalant rather than like an attack dog waiting for the kill.

Michael had a gleam in his eye. His expression was stern and his voice subdued as usual, but Al knew he was absolutely set on this chance to finally end his most redoubtable foe. Tom said it couldn’t be done. Rocco thought it might. So of course Michael let him go and try.

Al protested this later, when they were alone. It was not that he thought no-one should have a go at Roth, just that the airport setting was virtual suicide, and if anyone was going to put himself at risk in the Family’s interests it ought to be somebody who knew the mental processes of both bodyguards and law officers.

“No,” Michael said mildly when he pointed this out. “Rocco can do it.” Al refrained from arguing, because his only other justification for going was that Roth had been a thorn in Michael’s side for years and Al had a personal grudge against anyone who caused his boss harm. He didn’t think that kind of declaration would help his cause. Michael swept his eyes over Al’s dogged countenance and unbent enough to add, “Besides, I need you here.” That did the trick, as Michael had surely known it would.

Michael was far too antsy – not that he looked it – to be touched that night, or any night thereafter until they heard on the radio that Roth’s plane had taken off. As he listened Al felt a whole series of emotions: a vicarious thrill at imagining the moment, and envy that Rocco would be the one to do it. Most intense, though, was the fierce satisfaction that his Godfather would at last succeed in this final act of retribution. Al looked at Michael, who was listening while staring at some distant point outside; in that moment of anticipation Michael almost seemed the God of his youth, perfect and inevitable.

But when Michael turned away from the window Al could see no sign of triumph in his face; just an oncoming, inexorable cloud of unhappiness. He saw Michael set his jaw and brace himself for its arrival calmly, and when Al met his gaze he suddenly knew what it meant.

“There’s just one left now,” said Michael in an undertone, leaning back against his desk and covering his eyes. To Al’s disquieted mind he looked older, and colder, the change frighteningly abrupt. “You know I have to, Al.”

“Yeah,” Al managed. His pulse was hammering in his throat. He had never before felt this sick sensation at the thought of killing. And he knew it was not for the sake of Fredo but for what this unavoidable course of action might do to the man he loved. “How do you want me to…?”

“Come here.” Al advanced obediently toward the desk. Michael lowered his hand from his eyes, raised his head, and began to speak softly into Al’s ear.

 

* * *

 

 

Once it was over Al found his hands were shaking; strange, he hadn’t noticed when he pulled the trigger. Only the sound: it had seemed to echo so loudly on the lake that surely even in Reno they would hear it and know what he had done.

Al rowed to a remote, cold spot out of sight of the house, and after five minutes’ juggling with cement and rope Fredo was gone. He was not sure what Michael intended to tell people, but he bet there wouldn’t be too many questions asked. He cleaned the boat mechanically using pre-arranged supplies; the chill turned his fingers numb, which was a comfort, and he made sure the rest of him was equally frigid by the time he returned to the house.

As he tied the boat to the dock he looked up, and was glumly unsurprised to see a figure silhouetted behind the boathouse windows. He should have known Michael would watch, even if he had to force himself; whatever else his boss was, he was no coward. Still, Al caught himself cursing under his breath because, cold blood or not, standing witness to your own brother’s execution had to hurt. And Michael Corleone had already dealt and received enough hurt for an army.

Michael had not moved from his spot overlooking the lake. Al walked through the silent house and found him there bleached and drawn as a ghost. He did not turn as his bodyguard entered the room; Al was not sure he had even registered him.

“Shut the door,” came a flat voice that made him start, it echoed so oddly. Al obediently closed the boathouse door and latched it, because if they were going to have a conversation about this now it made sense to secure some privacy. Michael stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, and said nothing more. Al walked across and stood behind him, staring out at the water, and had to suppress an anxious shudder: the image of Fredo reciting the Hail Mary flashed into his mind. Michael still did not speak.

Al pulled his gaze away from the mist that continued to drift across the lake, and as he did so caught his boss’s dim reflection in the glass, illuminated by the crepuscular light that flickered through the windows. Straightaway he wished Michael had been more cowardly and let Al bear the full burden of watching Fredo die; he had never wanted to see such terrible resignation in a human face, and would kill a hundred more men if he could wipe it from Michael’s.

“…You didn’t have to watch it,” Al told him, flustered enough to break the silence.

“I did,” said Michael at last, his voice almost inaudible, as if so blunted with unhappiness he could not raise it. His eyes were still fixed on the water. Al did not have anything sensible to say to that, and was so depressed by his manner that he could not even come up with a foolish platitude. What could you say at such a time?

The room emptied of sound again; Al could just hear Michael breathing, regular and distant as if a machine was doing it for him.

“Don’t tell anyone,” said Michael finally, in a curious monotone that was hard to catch with his back turned. “You understand? Not Tom…Not anyone. They’ll figure it out for themselves, maybe.” He exhaled slowly. “But the only people who will ever _know_ are you…and me.”

“Sure,” promised Al quickly, not only because Michael’s word was law but because that wooden voice unsettled him. He stepped closer. Michael said something that ended in what sounded like “Please”, though Al was not sure to whom he spoke.

“You had to,” Al murmured vehemently. “You said it yourself.” And it was true. Perhaps a different ending would have been possible once, long ago, when Michael still retained some vestiges of American idealism. But that had been before Al met him; for the man he was now, the man Al understood and loved, mercy was a danger and retribution absolute.

And yet…Michael loved his family, whatever people might think, and he had not wanted this. Al saw him shake his head very faintly, heard him take a listless breath. It had been a long time since Al had touched his boss of his own volition; he thought if he started now, with the hands that had just ended his brother, Michael might genuinely try to kill him. But one last time his inbuilt urges evaded thought; he reached out to squeeze Michael’s rigid shoulder.

Instead of the explosion Al had been half-expecting, Michael simply exhaled and let his head fall forward heavily. Al could see his fists clench inside his pockets. He leaned down to touch his forehead to the back of his boss’s skull, dimly hoping he could convey his concern and unswerving belief without any clumsy words of sympathy; he knew Michael would not tolerate them. Michael’s only response was to tilt his head to the side, baring the white skin of his neck above his collar.

“You can,” he told Al in the same muted tone. Al froze as Michael’s fingers touched his own. “It won’t help. But you can.”

Al knew it wouldn’t: there was nothing he could say or do that would help Michael, he knew that with both his brain and intuition. But it might help _him_. He had never had a death affect him like this before, and Michael was the cause, so he might just be the cure too. And Al could hardly make him feel worse.

With this thought and his boss’s tacit permission he allowed his impulse free rein, closing his arm across Michael’s chest and drawing the smaller man back against him. Michael leaned into him with neither protest nor encouragement, though Al saw the furrow between his brows deepen. He knew he was toeing an indeterminate line between what Michael would allow and what he would not. Still, he bent his head to the exposed skin of the other man’s neck and inhaled.

Michael smelled just the same, of soap and smoke and familiarity that soothed the bothersome tremors in Al’s hands, even as they jogged his muzzled desire into life. He tightened his grip, mouth pressed lightly against the shoulder of Michael’s blazer, and held on. But the longer he held him, the more he was convinced that Michael was not really there: that he had retreated within himself, buried by disappointment and grief, or else was somewhere far out on the murky waters of Lake Tahoe.

Al began to wonder if for once in his life he should have listened to his own misgivings, and refused one of his Don’s commands. But it was as impossible for him to disobey Michael as it was for his Godfather to forgive.

“For what it’s worth,” muttered Al uselessly, into Michael’s neck, “I _am_ sorry. I’m real sorry, Boss…”

To his surprise he felt Michael shudder in his arms, abruptly reanimated. Michael took a raw breath, and before Al could react had twisted out of his embrace and turned to face him, grabbing his _caporegime_ by the shirtfront.

“You’re sorry?” he said in a low, venomous tone. “Why are _you_ sorry?” Michael jerked him closer. Al’s defensive instincts were screaming imminent danger at him: Michael felt _alive_ , and it was such a contrast to the months of remoteness that Al found it quite terrifying.

“Because-” he started. Michael shook him viciously, and raised his voice to a shout for the first time since Al could remember.

“ _You_ didn’t murder your own blood!”

Al had nothing comforting to say to that; the frustration of it rushed through him, though he could not tell at whom he was angry. Instead of trying to find more words he grabbed Michael by the chin without pausing to think how unpardonable it was, and tugged his head up so he could meet his eyes. He had always had more luck communicating that way.

Michael glared at him, jaw clenched beneath his fingers, eyes huge and animated with fury. Al barely noticed, because all he could see in Michael’s gaze was a brand new emotion: guilt, so vast and keen that he could find no end to it. Guilt, and not a trace of remorse.

Some movement in Al’s face must have alerted Michael to his shock.

“Are you going to judge me now, Al?” he demanded quietly; his hand twisted warningly in the bigger man’s collar. Al shook his head; finally, he was sure of something.

“No,” he said fervently. “Not ever. Not you.”

Michael took a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, a slight quiver in his compressed lips so that Al could not tell whether he was about to break down or just lose his temper completely. _Something_ had to happen: the hairs rising on the back of Al’s neck told him so. But Michael did neither. Instead, he grabbed Al’s face in both hands and kissed him.

All Al could think was that it was an assault: this was not about sex, or affection, or even catharsis. Michael’s closed mouth was bruising, his fingertips pressing into Al’s skull, and it felt like nothing less than a punishment. Al guessed that maybe he had had one coming a long time. Until Michael’s mouth opened beneath his.

Al heard himself make a muffled sound of surprise, turning to startled gratification when Michael’s teeth bit into his lower lip. He jerked back reflexively as the pain sharpened, but Michael just grasped him by the scruff of the neck and tugged him down.

“Don’t ever back away from me,” said Michael peremptorily, his mouth an inch from Al’s, then kissed him again. Al was staggered, because this time there could be no doubt what kind of kiss it was and he had no choice but to respond; even if every cell in his brain had been telling him this was madness he would not have stopped.

Michael’s mouth was warm in contrast to the ice of his lips. He tasted exactly as Al had imagined – had tried not to imagine – and the ruthlessness of the caress was as heady as liquor. The younger man found himself capitulating helplessly, beyond confused but not caring. It seemed that Michael approved; his grip eased on the back of Al’s neck as though he no longer expected him to run, and his kiss turned light and taunting.

Al heard himself gasp Michael’s name, sounding exactly like the infatuated fool he was, and slid both hands across his back. His boss shook his head as Al tried to say something else, God knew what, and bit him again, stretching up to gently flick his tongue across the mark.

Al gave up on trying to speak and pulled Michael closer, one hand twisting possessively in his dark hair. He had never known a woman – not that there had been _so_ many – who kissed with the same eloquence as this man, with as many variations in delicacy and bloodthirstiness. He wondered blindly if it was meant to communicate something, and what, or whether Michael was just over-skilled at everything he put his mind to. Maybe it was what came of having to please a modern, educated wife. If so, Kay had been crazy to run, because Al had never felt anything so perfectly arousing.

“…What the hell are we doing?” he managed to ask, after a long and claustrophobic embrace; Michael’s mouth was on his throat, breath warm over the place where his pulse raced closest to his skin.

“ _Hiding_.”

Al supposed it was true, too: covering one sin with another. He was sorry for it, and yet how could he be, if it was helping Michael for one second to forget what he had done? Michael looked up at him, pale and determined and his magnificent eyes still guilty. Al knew his boss could read him with no effort at all, and his thoughts were edging too close to kindness to be borne.

“It won’t be for long,” Michael assured him acidly. “So keep your pity to yourself.” He set his hands to the front of Al’s shirt and pulled, tearing buttons off their threads. It was a deliberate play, Al knew it, enough to force his most elementary instincts to the surface. Before the smaller man could move Al let out a low rumble and seized him by both shoulders, crowding him until Michael fetched up against the window with a thud that rattled the panes.

Michael did not say a word, merely bared his teeth in something that wasn’t a smile and went on the attack. Al had time to see the acute misery recede from his gaze, to be replaced by a carnal kind of anger, before Michael knocked him back. Al was far too strong to really come to grief in a hands-on fight with his boss, but that didn’t stop it smarting. And when Michael stopped him by the simple expedient of grabbing his belt and kissing him again, Al readily accepted defeat.

Al’s path of retreat had backed him up against Connie’s sun-lounger that stood at the side of the room, currently strewn with blankets against the frigid air.

“Sit down,” commanded Michael, jerking his head aside as Al tried avidly to catch his lips. The shorter man pushed at his shoulder until he landed on the chair with a thump and found himself looking up, which always felt instinctively right when it came to Michael. Even with his hair falling into his face and his clothing disarranged from Al pawing at him, he was splendid. Al didn’t care, then, if this was just one more way for Michael to use him as an emotional poultice: it felt as though this was what he had existed for since the day he had been dragged from his holding cell.

“ _Michael_ …” Al said, in a breath that was lust and abject prayer at the same time. He wrapped his arms around his boss’s waist and buried his face against his abdomen. He could feel Michael’s heart beat, _quickquickquick_ , and strong fingers came down to grip his collar. Then the hands tensed, the muscles beneath Al’s cheek turning rigid as Michael sucked in a harsh breath. In consternation Al recalled the last time his Don had held a man exactly like this, and just how many feet below the surface that man was now.

“Don’t think!” he told Michael fiercely. “ _Don’t think_ , it doesn’t help.” He raised his head to see the older man nod, looking sick. That was no good; Al grabbed Michael by the waistcoat before he lost momentum, and hauled him easily into his lap, stripping the jacket off him to run his hands hungrily up his ribs. Michael gave him what might be interpreted as a grateful look, eyes blessedly sharpening with appetite instead of anguish.

Al sighed with relief, then with pleasure as Michael shifted above him; the press of his small frame was intoxicating. He felt Michael grab his hair, snapping his head back to stare curiously into his face while Al fumbled with the buttons of his expensive garments. Al no longer gave a damn about improper thoughts, or deviance, or anything of the kind: all he could think of was feeling Michael’s flesh beneath his hands.

He was too flustered to get very far: every tug at his hair, every brush of Michael’s mouth against his own made his hands shake like a teenager’s. His boss was a solid weight in his lap, and he was harder than he had ever been, even before he had first slept with his wife.

“Let me.” Michael shot him a supercilious look and undid his waistcoat and shirt neatly, an unobtrusive flush rising on his white cheekbones as Al caught him close. The bigger man gasped at the sensation. Michael did not, though he let out a small noise when Al bent his head to bite at one collarbone; he wanted to fix his mark on Michael, some sign that this had really happened, even if no-one else would see it. _Although_ , thought Al, suddenly conscious of the windows…

“…Hey,” he said with difficulty, struggling to sit up properly with his boss pinning him down. “Michael.” It felt scandalous, and delightful, being allowed to say that name so intimately, and for a moment Al lost his line of thought. Michael kissed him ardently, rather than simply ordering him to shut up. His cool hand slid under Al’s collar. “ _Michael_ …” tried Al again, lips against lips. “You think we should stop and-”

“No.”

“-And go somewhere safer?” he managed. Michael drew back at that and shot him a bitter look that said that if there was any danger to be found in this house, they were it. “I just mean it’s broad daylight and someone might _see_ ,” Al explained, because even now, with his arms full of the man he had wanted so painfully, there was nothing more important than protecting his Godfather’s reputation.

“I don’t care,” said Michael through gritted teeth, “it’s my house. It’s _my_ goddamn Family.” He shoved Al down onto his back and leaned over him, the wooden frame of the lounger creaking under their combined weight. Michael set his hand to Al’s throat, prompting his pulse to jump deliciously. Like this, Michael felt lethal, omnipotent.

“I decided, when it came time to end Roth,” Michael murmured, his hand moving over Al’s vulnerable stomach, “that I will allow nothing and _no-one_ in this world to stop me doing what I have to do. Ever again.”

“ _Yes_ ,” agreed Al rapturously, Michael’s shadow covering him like a bird of prey falls on a snake, all power and grace and quite inescapable; and knew again in that moment that he would carry out Michael Corleone’s will to the death.

Michael’s fingers touched his belt buckle. He looked at his bodyguard solemnly, the guilt receding to a struggling mote as Al reached for him. “And I have to do this.”

So they did.

 

* * *

 

 

Months later Al watched his boss sitting outside in the brilliant fall cold, and wondered if Michael felt regret for any of it. He did not think so. Michael was now the head of the most powerful Family in the United States. Time and again the Godfather had done what had to be done to get there, and Al with him; and some of it was terrible and some of it absolutely miraculous. None of it had made Michael happy, and they had both known it would not. But they did it anyway.

Looking at him through the window, where the antique glass created ripples in the skirling leaves and in Michael’s still, bundled-up figure, Al wondered if he would trade what he had fought for – authority, wealth, complete control – to have the kind of life his father had led. The Corleone home was very different to the one Al had entered all those years ago. Fredo was dead. Rocco was dead. Michael and Kay were bitterly estranged. Connie was there but remote, as if it had taken every last bit of her faith to accept the story that her brother had drowned. Young Tony would not speak in front of his father.

Al was sure Michael had not intended this, just as he was sure that the older man would never be happy again. But perhaps that was beside the point: happiness was not _life_. Michael was alive, and his bodyguard meant to keep him that way. He could still feel, and Al would be at his disposal when he needed to express it, heart and brain and body. He stared at Michael staring blankly at the blustery gold of the landscape, and felt the same yearning sense of purpose he had always felt, long before his mind had balanced with his instincts and told him it meant love.

Al supposed that, in the end, he too had no regrets.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was incredibly satisfying to write, as well as totally self-indulgent. Couldn't persuade myself to go full Mario Puzo on the sex scene, but I may psych myself up for smut at some point in the future!  
> If anyone made it this far: I thank and applaud you :)


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